


Surety

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Merchant of Venice - Shakespeare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2008-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-25 04:05:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1630595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Story by solvent90</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surety

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Academe

 

 

He had been invited to remain in Belmont as long as he pleased; that is, as long as business allowed. The Lady Portia had secured his promise that he would remain at least another two weeks, before she had withdrawn with Bassanio into their chamber; and now, a week and six days into his visit, he stood under the olive tree in the white courtyard, watching dawn break over Bassanio's new country for the last time. 

"You have not slept."

He started and turned. Bassanio's hair was in disarray and he was unshaven, in shirt and breeches, with no doublet; there was a lingering satisfied flush to his face, his mouth reddened, his eyes heavy with wine and sleep and something more. There was a faint red mark on his throat. _No more have you,_ he thought but did not say. 

"No," he said, without elaboration or explanation. There was no need. "It is a lovely place."

"Mm," Bassanio replied, stretching and glancing around, his usual febrile energy subsumed into drunken languor. "It is. I," he swayed faintly and then smiled brilliantly into Antonio's eyes, as if in recognition. "I am glad to see you here. I would you would stay longer. Antonio." 

He stepped closer, raising his eyebrows at Antonio's automatic retreat. 

"Antonio, Antonio. You lent your body for my debt," he said softly. His hand came to rest, very delicately, on Antonio's shoulder; close as he was, his breath was a susurration that raised all the fine hairs at the back of Antonio's neck. "Will you accept no thanks?"

His mouth, just now, would taste of wine from Portia's cellars. Antonio had not touched wine on his own account since he was twenty; all his recollections of the taste were intermingled with a thousand instances of Bassanio's laughter, the scrape of his stubble and the press of his hands.

"I promised my soul," he began to answer; his voice, thin as a thread, frayed to nothing when Bassanio traced a finger over his hip. He recovered it. "My soul was the forfeit for your fidelity to her. Your wife." 

Bassanio frowned.

"My wife," he said musingly, doubtful, as if freshly introduced to a puzzling notion, and then he brightened. "She sleeps." 

"And so should you. Go back to your lady's bed, Bassanio."

Bassanio was yielding, as he became when he had drunk much, and he let Antonio turn him around good-naturedly enough - albeit with the occasional paw at Antonio's hip and thigh and waist - and stumbled easily with him to the door of Portia's chamber.

She was waiting, her long hair tumbled down, her arms bare, and she met them without surprise, her arms already outstretched to receive Bassanio from Antonio's arms. 

"I think he has drunk overmuch," Antonio said, trying to laugh, as Bassanio smiled dizzily and bent to kiss her shoulder, murmuring praise of her alabaster and gold. 

She considered Antonio with her keen thoughtful gaze.

"And so you brought him back to me." 

"Yes."

"Good Antonio," Bassanio mumbled into her arm and laughed to himself.

"Good Antonio," she echoed. "I thank you."

He bowed.

"Good night," he said, his voice tight, and she tilted her head, still watching him with that unnerving attention.

"Good night," she answered at last, her voice very gentle but charged with the finality of a judgment. He saw in her face, suddenly, for the first time, the calm clear grey eyes of his boy-rescuer from the courtroom, the firm settled mouth; heard _why, this bond is forfeit_ sound in his ears. O, upright judge. He smiled at that, painfully, and she smiled back, the same memory in her eyes. Then she let the door close between them. 

Once, in Venice, Bassanio had come to him after a night out, quite unexpectedly. Antonio had met him a week ago and so was not expecting sight of him for another month at least; and when he had looked up from his prayers to see Bassanio at his window, eyebrows raised and grinning, there was a long moment when all he could think was _mercy, Lord, mercy, mercy_. But he had not known then, rising hurriedly from his knees, flushed, while Bassanio came towards him, hand outstretched, what mercy would mean between them and he did not pray for it now.

 


End file.
